69 Hues of Canada: Gettin Yaoi With It, Eh?
by BusterManwomb
Summary: In the dystopian hellscape of October 2019, Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau finally manages to fulfill a campaign promise with the power of gun. What starts out as an innocent constitutional crisis turns into something much less wholesome, and it's down to one big-headed lunatic to save Canada- nay, the world- from an even more annoying lunatic!
1. BREAKING NEWS

About the Author:

Best Known by Ottawa Police as 'That slutty fucking raccoon that keeps violating Stephen Harper's garbage cans', Buster Manwomb is credited with making garbage men refuse to come within twenty yards of Stephen Harper's garbage cans.

Chapter 1: BREAKING NEWS

This was a big day. Such a big day that Ron Burgundy was sent to Canada in person. Such a big day that he snorted the **_good_** cocaine beforehand. Many other news people were around him.

"Are you ready, mister Burgundy?" Ron Burgundy's cameraman asked.

The cocaine was working. His cameraman was a an octopus in nipple tassels.

"I am as ready as you would make for a fine plate of calamari, you sexy cephalopod."

The octopus in nipple tassels nodded. As long as Ron Burgundy was still able to pronounce words, they were good to go. "We're broadcasting in three, two, one!"

Ron Burgundy stared down at his notes written into his palm. The only two points he'd written down was '_parliament hill = snowy white house_' and '_do NOT call it French Australia_'

"Ron Burgundy here, reporting from the Whi-I mean parliament hill! Where President-equivalent Justin Trudeau has hinted that he's actually going to fulfill a campaign promise! Truly an event without precedent without drugs involved! Now shut up! It looks like something is-as the kids say- going down!"

The sound system blared to life, the door was still

"Sir, can- can I just… Sir, are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Hey, sh….. Hush!" An audibly toked up Justin Trudeau lazily retorted. "It'll be-getoff- It'll be great. Come on, just-hey!- get the… get… give me that-and-urgh- Okay FINE I'll do it!"

Justin Trudeau's dainty little foot kicked open the front door of parliament hill just as All Star by Smash Mouth began playing. The crowd gasped.

He held a fat joint in one hand, and a gun in the other, and the bill of rights in the other.

'What's up?" He called out as he took a long drag, jerking the gun towards the bill of rights, keeping the security and nursing staff back as he approached the podium.

"So you know how I said that I'd do some of that… some o' that…. Uh...commen vous dites…. e**Lec**toral reform!"

A handful of people in the audience made barely audible "eh" and "meh" sounds in between long drags of that sweet, legal kush.

"Well, Imma do it!" Trudeau declared.

The ehs and mehs grew slightly more enthusiastic, with the exception of one rando in the back yelling "_HELL_ meh!"

"The electoral process, herethenceward will be-GET THE FUCK BACK!" Trudeau shouted as one of the security guards tried to inch toward the gun. "Sorry… uh…. right! The next prime ministre will be… whichever party leader has the nicest hair! And election day is today!"

The stoned masses muttered confusingly as Trudeau backed into the front door, still holding the bill of rights at gun point, laughing with a feverish manic energy not unlike Jason Momoa seconds after being offered a role in The Bad Batch 2.

"Well there you have it, folks!" Ron Burgundy announced, his eyes red from having a thicc doob passed his way twenty times to many. "Uhhhh… _that _Guy. The uh, king of the snow Austrians. Yeah. He started a hair pageant. I see absolutely no way this could go wrong. More at soon_._"

Meanwhile, in the Conservative party's volcano lair, the conservative party's secret elite-The Peanuts Gang- were getting their shit all up in a tizzy:

"We are fucked! Fucked!" Charlie Brown wailed with the despair of the far right seeing Trudeau's blackface photos and realizing they have to find racism offensive now. "How in the head cheese on fucktoast are we supposed to compete with Trudeau in a hair contest?!"

"We couldn't even bring ourselves to insult it back in 2015!" Schroeder despaired.

"That's because it would have been straight slander!" Linus screamed.

"What do we do?!" Rerun screamed in between whole breaths of cocaine. "We can't win with Andrew Scheer! He has worse hair than his own left nut!"

"I guess we have no choice." Charlie Brown. "But to surrender to the libs."

There was a dark silence, partially out of the depressing realizations, and partially out of noticing a distant cackling voice. "...Fools." a barely visible silhouette inched closer. The aromatic aroma of Elmer's glue and hair gel thrust into the air, penetrating their nostrils with the unrelenting pungency of a yankee candle stuffed with cat shit.

"And you are?" Lucy asked.

"I said FOOLS!" invader Zim screamed, emerging from the shadows. His hair was MASSIVE. As he spoke, Gir was dipping whole wigs into a barrel of Elmer's glue and sticking them to him.

"Oh mah lawd." Peppermint Patty gushed. "That is the most beautiful hair I have ever seen!"

"IASKTHEQUESTIONS!" Zim loudly blurted.

The Peanuts gallery stared at Zim.

Zim stared back.

The Peanuts gallery stared at Zim.

Gir ate a wig.

"So do you want to be our party leader?"

"Yes!"

"Hooray!" The Conservative party cheered as Gir puked a wig onto Zim.


	2. Fuckers in a Bangerous Time

About the Author

Buster Manwomb is the answer to the question 'what does does the Canadian federal government and the female anatomy have in common' as they learned everything they know about either topic from porn.

Chapter 2: Fuckers in a Bangerous Time!

"Finally, Gir!" Zim declared entitledly in the privacy of their pre-debate dressing room.

Gir lay on the ground, gargling glue nonresponsively.

"Silence, Gir!" Zim said. "After all these years I am finally fulfilling the instruction on my _yoouth_!

Flashback time:

"Congratulations, Irken youth." A robotic arm said to an absent-minded toddler Zim. "Your gender has been promoted to: INVADER!"

"OOH!" Toddler Zim squealed.

"As an invader it will be your DUTY to take over planets in the name of the mighty Irken empire by ANY means necessary, be it force, seduction, or _Government Infiltration!"_ The robotic arm explained. "Training starts NOW!"

A vacuum tube crashed through the nearest wall, sucking Zim up to the Irken Nursery/Death Academy.

Flashback DONE

"Only an Invader of the FIERCEST superiority would take a mere _twenty _years to remember the first thing ever invader is taught!" Invader Zim screamed. "Like ME! I am ZIM!"

Gir was dipping entire jars of ketchup into the glue and eating them as Charlie Brown ran into the dressing room.

"Sir, the debate is about to start!"

"There are DEBATES?!" ZIm screamed. "Why was I not informed of this?!"

"You need to be doing something while everyone judges your hair." Charlie Brown explained. "Just keep yelling 'pipelines and tax cuts' and you'll be fine. It worked for Scheer. Better be on your A game though. You're slipping in the polls."

"What?!" Zim screamed. "How?! Gir! Show me the surveys!"

Gir vomitted a cracked, glue-encased ipad. In the third place was a picture of Trudeau, though there was a bottle of black shoe polish imposed over his face. Second was Zim, pictured with the mini-cooper sized mass of wigs glued to his hair.

In first place was-

"DIB!" Zim cursed, looking at a picture of Dib balancing a mattress and a whole shag carpet on his head. "Of course he would try to use his dis_GUSTING_ly colossal head to hold an even more majestic hairdo than me! GIR, more wigs! Glue more wigs onto me!"

"We ran out!" Gir said, popping his head out of another glue barrel.

"EU-eh-ugh!" Zim gasped." Unacceptable! Glue more stuff to me, Gir! EVERYTHING!"

"YES MASTER!" Gir saluted as Charlie Brown returned to guide Zim to the debate floor.


	3. Highlander 2 is a GODDAMN TREASURE

About the Author:

Buster Manwomb is wanted by the RCMP for imitating a Canada Post worker and throwing pickled cabbage patch kids at white people rather than just fucking buying Death Stranding,

Chapter 3: Mass Debate

"Hello." A stoic and well dressed man standing in front of the debate platform looked straight into the camera. "My name is John CBC. Three hundred years ago, my great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother, Bob CBC founded this great company with the vision that democracy could be taken seriously. This last hour has been a roller coaster for our country, and we feel that it is only appropriate that we take this whole process as seriously as the government seems to be. With that, I am honoured to introduce our debate moderator."

"Hello!" Homestar Runner said. "I am sitting at the biggest desk. That makes me in charge. How are you?"

Trudeau leaned on his podium fabulously, staring into space with the very ferocious air-headedness that helped him make this country what it is today. Dib and Zim were screaming at each other. Nobody except Dib seemed to notice or care that Gir was tearing apart the whole building, gluing curtains, carpets, and support beams to Zim's hair.

"You won't get away with this, Zim!" Dib screamed. "You'll never win!"

"Foolish Dib!" Zim retorted venomously. "These snowy filth-monkeys have no choice but to choose me! Look at how fabulous my hair is!"

"Your hair has mass, not style!" Dib said, his shag rug wig bouncing with every word. "Canadians aren't that stupid!"

With perfect timing, a Winnipeg driver crashed through the wall, lamenting that they didn't get winter tires with one brain cell and getting ready to accuse the building of cutting them off with the other. Before they could say anything, Gir threw the car into Zim's wig, and they was never heard from again.

"Silence, please!" Homestar declared, getting Dib and Zims attention by shocking them with fifty thousand volts. "First question: I have no arms."

There was a pause.

"Was… That's not a question!" Dib exclaimed.

"Wrong!" Homestar declared as Dib was shocked again.

"Eugh…" Zim groaned. "_PIPELINES_... and Tax Cuts!"

"Not bad." Homestar admitted, letting Zim go unshocked.

"Both." Trudeau said, still leaning on his podium.

"That is correct!" Homestar said. "Next question!"

"WAIT!" Andrew Scheer yelled tearfully, crashing the debate. He seemed to be wearing his own left nut as a wig. "I have fabulous hair now! Let me run! Please!"

"Security!" Homestar called. "The groupies are getting out of town. It's violence time!"

A staggering number of police rushed the stage, tackled Andrew Scheer's balls off, and beat him worse than a Hong Kong citizen publicly fighting for their human rights. Just as the police were about to leave with Scheer, Gir threw the lot of them into Zim's wig. If anybody paid attention, they might have noticed that the entire building and surrounding neighborhood was assimilated into Zim's hair.

"Next Question!" Homestar announced. "Are hats?"

This confused both Dib and Zim.

"Uh, yes?" Dib answered before getting shocked. "Wait, I meant 'No'!" he shouted before getting shocked again.

"Pipelines and tax cuts!" Invader Zim said confidently, his hair now largely comprised of Toronto and North Dakota. Far in the background Gir could be heard screaming as he tried to shove the left half of Hudson's bay in there. Zim went unshocked.

"Five!" Trudeau said.

"Exactly." Homestar praised. His desk flew away as Zim's hair developed his own gravitational pull. Trees, cars, and buildings could be seen flying overhead, wedging themselves in the goopy mass. "Last Question! What is Canada's song?"

"Um, 'O Canada'?" Dib answered before getting shocked again. "Really!?"

"Pipelines and tax breaks!" Zim yelled, clutching onto his podium, trying not to get absorbed into his own hair. No shock.

"Paint It Black, by the Rolling Stones." Trudeau answered confidently.

"Apparently!" Homestar acknowledged, nodding. "I have made my decision! The next Prime minister is-"

"Wait, you choose who wins the election?!" Dib screamed.

"Guards!" Homestar screamed, holding onto his chair. Police ran up and managed to beat up Dib a bit before they got sucked into Zim's hair. "As I was saying, the next Prime Minister is-"

"Ha ha, YES! This shit PLEASES me!" A loud and charismatic voice screamed with boisterous satisfaction, like an opera singer getting a handy.

The King of All the Cosmos-from the uber-blockbuster Katamari franchise- arose far in the background in all his effervescent glory, taking up the entire sky. He looked unto Zim's hair with a jealous arousal. "This **_chonky_** mass truly is worthy of becoming a star within my domain! You! Handsome green dog! Will you part with this?"

"Iiiiiii'll trade you!" Gir responded capitalistically.

"Name your price." The king of the cosmos boomed. "A planet made of gold? Eternal life?"

"Three taquitos!" Gir answered.

"Gir!" Zim screamed. "What are you doing? Stop!"

But he was too late. The King of All the Cosmos disappeared in an explosion of light. A wormhole opened up, tugging a screaming Invader Zim into the Unknowable Beyond by his hair. When the dust had settled, all beyond the debate platform was a barren waste, except for Gir, who was rolling on the ground, smooshing three stale Seven-Eleven taquitos into the dirt.

"I have changed my decision!" Homestar said.

"Whatever." Dib announced. "I'm just happy it's not Zim."

"The New Prime Minister is Andrew Sheer's left testicle!" Homestar announced.

"What?!" Dib yelled, gabberflasted. To his right, he had noticed that Andrew Scheer's left nut had taken place at Zim's vacant podium. Their hair was indeed fabulous: it looked like Ben Stiller in Zoolander when he'd mastered _Magnum_.

"Congratulation!" Homestar announced. "What have you got to say?"

For a moment, Andrew Scheer's Left Nut said nothing. Then, through sheer force of will, a massive Red flag erected behind him, the Soviet anthem booming.

Halfway through the confused screams of conservatives everywhere, this story ended.

THE END

If you are an organism of culture that wishes to witness the thoughts of this generation's genius at work, or simply want to see what happens when somebody huffs enough mayonnaise in a co-op trash bin, follow Buster Manwomb on Twitter at BusterManwomb.


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